


A Thousand Ways to Fall in Love (But There is Only You)

by MaskoftheRay



Series: Prompt and Circumstance [11]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League (2017), Justice League - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alfred AND Jor EL ship it, Blow Jobs, Brief Mention of Blood, Bruce Wayne Needs Help, Bruce Wayne Needs a Hug, Bruce Wayne Whump, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce's Self Esteem Issues, Canon-Typical Violence, Clark Kent Needs a Hug, Clark Kent Whump, Clark Kent is Bad at Communicating, Clark Kent is Not Okay, Clark Kent-centric, Comic Book Science, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Honesty, Hurt Clark Kent, I make the science up as I go, Idiots in Love, Learning from mistakes, Learning to Work Together, M/M, Major Character Undeath, Mental Health Issues, Mental Health Issues Resulting from Un-dying, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mostly Teen there's just one scene which is Explicit, Moving On, Multi-POV, Mutual Pining, Overthinking, POV Clark Kent, Personal Growth, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fill, Pseudo-Science, Psychological Trauma, Resurrection, Sad and Happy, Science, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, Use Your Words, Vomiting, canon-divergence, heavily implied sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:22:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21869740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaskoftheRay/pseuds/MaskoftheRay
Summary: Clark Kent and Bruce Wayne have never been friends. They’re barely acquaintances, most days. But Brucedidbring Superman back from the dead, and Clark respects that. Furthermore, he agrees with the ideals that the Justice League was founded on, so he is attempting to move on and forgive Batman for the role he played in Clark’s death.The problem is that Clark’sbraindoesn’t seem to be as on-board with that idea. Because it turns out that coming back from the dead was the easy part— now he has to live with it. So what do you do when you realize that the world isn’t perfect, and your best ally may be the very man who tried to bring you down? Clark doesn’t know, but he’s going to figure it out. The answer may be unexpected.
Relationships: Batman & Robins (mentioned), Batman & Superman, Bruce Wayne & Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne & Dick Grayson (mentioned), Bruce Wayne & Jason Todd (mentioned), Clark Kent & Alfred Pennyworth, Clark Kent & Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent & Diana Prince, Clark Kent & Jonathan Kent (mentioned), Clark Kent & Jor El, Clark Kent & Martha Kent, Clark Kent & Mortality, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Kal El & Jor El, Superman & Wonder Woman, Superman & the Justice League
Series: Prompt and Circumstance [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540885
Comments: 14
Kudos: 246





	A Thousand Ways to Fall in Love (But There is Only You)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [A03reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A03reader/gifts).



> For [A03reader](https://archiveofourown.org/users/A03reader/profile), who gave me the wonderful prompt: “I really enjoy how you fully develop your characters and would love to see you write a fic of Clark with severe PTSD from Bruce trying to kill him and he and Bruce having to deal with this as they try to work together on the JL.” I’m sorry this took sooooooo looonnnnggg to get to you, but I wanted to make sure it was done right. Also, I realize I have no idea if you like slash, or SuperBat 🙈, but that’s what my brain came up with so I hope you like it! Thanks for the inspiration!!!! Hopefully the length of this fic will make up for the wait ;) . 
> 
> **About the rating:** I really wasn’t sure what I should rate this, as it’s not _really_ more than ‘Teen’ for most of it (there is a lot of bad language) and there’s only one semi-explicit scene at the very end of this; this adds to the plot but IS NOT vital to it, so feel free to skip. In the end, I put ‘Mature’ and split the difference. Hope you like it!

Darkness. Wet. Rain. The grit of the crumbling cement as it presses into his cheek. Pain. An unearthly, cruel roar that sends a shiver of dread down his spine, a kind of fear he’s never felt before now. Until that night. _Do you bleed, indeed_.

A more profound darkness and all-encompassing quiet. The end of his life is crepuscular, because he doesn’t die instantaneously after Doomsday impales him. For a second— and that is a _long_ time for someone like him, someone who can bend space and the laws of physics by simply existing— he can _feel_ his body trying to repair the wound. But there are some things even he cannot do, and this, apparently, is one of them.

As the Bat had said, disdainfully, “You’re not a _god_.”

The world either began from a single moment of pressure, or through one act of speech. Either way, he knows, _light_ was there at the start. But one thing neither version mentions is **sound**. Death— or whatever freak not-place he’d been— was quiet. Not restful, because for it to be restful, he’d have had to have a spark of awareness to know what peace is. But it was quiet, quiet in a way that he has never experienced before. He doesn’t remember anything, except for smudges. It’s like— catching something moving out of the corner of your eye, or squinting at the sun, or seeing something in the distance through heavy fog. He knows it’s _there_ , yet he still can’t tell what it is. But he knows that death is quiet.

Coming back is loud. The light feels overwhelming for a moment, but the sound startles him more: Metropolis is a large, developed urban area with a population in the millions. But the heartbeats— one in particular— are like nails on a chalkboard. _He_ is here. The Batman is here, and he is afraid. _Good_. ~~~~

A spite like nothing he’s ever felt before courses through him, at the auditory proof of Batman’s existence, at the sight of him. Had it not been enough to bend the Superman to his knee? Had it not been enough to humiliate him? Had it not been enough for him to take _everything_ from Clark? _What more could he **possibly** want? _

The Bat’s suit is not soft. It’s _not_. But to him, everything is _soft_ — everything is **breakable**. Beneath his fingertips he can feel the individual threads of kevlar that are woven together underneath the shell of the harder carbon fiber-and other-materials (which he doesn’t know the names of). The Bat’s pulse races as he tries to breathe, but his hand is still squeezing, squeezing. _He won’t let me die— how can he want me alive?_

He doesn’t pay attention to the others, until they force him to—

“Clark.”

He jerks awake.

His mother is standing over him, a worried frown marring her face. It makes her look old— older than she is, and Clark hates himself a little more for it. _He is the reason why Martha Kent has premature stress lines_. His mother is not young, but she should not appear as aged as she does. Clark frowns unconsciously, and his mother sits at the foot of the couch with a sigh. He awkwardly sits up, and she takes his hand.

Clark tries not to flinch at the physical contact. He realizes: _I haven’t been touched like that in months_. Everything is a ‘first’ for him now, in this strange second-life. First engagement, and first breakup, first conversation, first sunrise… the list goes on. Ma gently squeezes his hand, before letting go. “Bad dream?” she asks. But it is not a question.

Martha Kent has always known how to read the mind of her alien child.

He lets out a shaky breath. “Sorry.”

Ma frowns, but doesn’t say anything. When it becomes clear that Clark is not going to speak, she leaves. Clark stares at Jonathan Kent’s pocket watch, which still sits on the fireplace mantel, where he placed it almost two decades ago, before the tornado. He frowns, and listens to its soft, insistent ticking until Ma comes back into the room and gives him a funny look. Clark blinks, and looks out the window. It’s dark outside.

He hasn’t moved in _hours_.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

It all starts when Bruce asks, “Can I have some of your cells?”

Clark is visiting the Batcave, because he and Batman work _together_ now— this is just one of the complications of ~~Clark’s~~ **Superman’s** return, and of the league’s formation— and he’s trying. Clark is trying to get back into the rhythm of things (as Superman; Clark Kent is **dead** now). He is trying to work with Batman, and Batman is trying to work with him. Necessity is the mother of invention, but not of _friendship_.

Just because they’d worked together (worked _well_ together) against Steppenwolf does not mean that Clark and Bruce are _friends_.

So they’re in the cave when Bruce ( _not_ Batman) makes his strange request. His back is to Clark and he’s got the cowl pulled down (hence the reason why it’s a request from Bruce). Despite this display of relaxation, Bruce can’t fool him: he’s tense. Clark pauses. _That’s odd_ , he thinks. A shiver of apprehension runs through him, and he can’t quite silence the second mental voice that asks: _and what is Batman going to **do** with those cells?_

A long stretch of awkward silence echoes between them.

“Why?” Clark finally inquires.

Bruce, who’s still got his back turned under the pretense of looking at the computer, shrugs. His heartrate kicks up a notch and Clark hears him swallow. “Curiosity,” he says lightly— a slip into that earlier mask of ‘Brucie Wayne,’ the one that Clark experienced at Luthor’s gala in Metropolis so long— a _lifetime_ — ago. Clark tenses, and Bruce seems to realize his mistake. He turns, and his eyes are dark and his lips nearly white by how they’re pursed.

“If you— I need… because you’re—”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Clark says.

Bruce blinks. But he no longer looks shut inside himself. “You’re an alien,” he blurts, still not meeting Clark’s gaze. Clark tilts his head: yeah, _duh_. He is well aware of that fact. _He died because of that fact_. Bruce sighs, then continues, more quietly, “You’re an alien, Kent, and there are no alien doctors on the team.” Then Bruce goes silent— as in, he doesn’t say anything else. But Clark can hear his heartbeat speed up a bit.

It— really, it is a funny statement, that there are no alien doctors, but Clark’s stomach drops anyway. _There is nobody to **save** you if you die_. He swallows. Bruce is tense again and his brow is furrowed. “Oh,” Clark says. The atmosphere in the cave seems palpable. He would put good money on the fact that they’re both picturing the exact same thing. Clark exhales, and considers Bruce’s question— or is it an offer?

In the short span of time between coming back, and Steppenwolf, Clark often felt resentful toward Bruce. He caught himself wishing that Batman was the kind of man who’d be demonstrative in his penance, the kind of man who would fall to his knees and say, “ _I’m sorry_.” But then, he’d remind himself, that wasn’t justice ~~and Bruce was too proud a man to _ever_ go to his knees for anyone anyway~~. That a wish like that was nothing more than petty. That it was vengeful. And Clark didn’t want to _be_ that. He refused to.

His Ma, and Pa, had taught him better, once upon a time.

However, some things take more time to heal. Some wounds are _deep_. Clark’s death, and Batman’s role in it, are one of those things. Yet Clark also knows that if guilt had a scent, Bruce would be reeking of it. This is one of the reasons Superman had been able to work with the Bat, after— after.

Another reason is that, once he’d been able to _think_ more, Clark had understood that Batman, Bruce, **hadn’t** killed him; even if he’d once been _trying_ to. There _is_ a difference between crafting the weapon and using it. But Bruce had done more than not actually kill him. He’d saved Ma, and the farm too. He’d been the one to argue to bring Clark _back_ , from what Diana has told him.

So Clark considers Bruce’s question. _If there were anyone smart enough to come up with a way to fix him, it’s Bruce. It’s Bruce, who went face-to-face with the most powerful being in the world (maybe galaxy) and fought him to a draw. It’s Bruce, who would make the gates of Hell freeze over, if only to get his way_.

And maybe it is a bad idea to give a piece of him to the genius, billionaire vigilante who’s single-handedly combatted crime in _Gotham_ for twenty years. Maybe it’s a dangerous, stupid, dumb idea. But becoming Superman was _also_ a dumb, dangerous, stupid idea. A bad idea. ~~A deadly idea~~. But Clark made it anyway.

He also made the decision to work with Bruce, made the decision to give the league a try. Even if he’s not— it’s been two months since he un-died, and Clark knows he’s not okay. It’s why Superman hasn’t made any public appearances since Steppenwolf. It’s why the league fields questions about him with the gimmicky line, “Yes, Superman is alive, but he has taken a temporary leave of absence.” Clark is _not_ okay. But he’s trying to be. He’s trying.

“Okay,” he says. “How are we going to do this?”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Clark may think that he’s doing this out of a sense of duty— and Bruce **is** — but a part of him is also motivated by genuine _curiosity_. Though Batman may be a detective, Bruce is a scientist at-heart. To solve crime, one should know how to analyze it, after all, and so Bruce has mastered many different scientific fields. But the fact that he is also _interested_ in them helps. Bruce— Batman— has always been fascinated by Superman’s potential, too.

At first, this fascination had been for his potential to cause destruction, chaos, _apocalypse_ , and then with the sheer improbability (but reality) of Kent’s _body_ — his physical ability to simply _exist_ here, as an alien. Then, with access to the ship ~~because Kal El, its rightful owner, was no longer around to **stop** him~~, Bruce’s interest had expanded to **all** things Kryptonian. But like Superman himself, these things were only relevant to the Bat for their capability to cause _harm_.

Bruce doesn’t allow himself to think like that now, of course. He can’t afford to. Not since he murdered a man. Not since Superman proved that people are still good and that he did not think himself _above_ humanity. Not since Clark came to terms with Bruce’s unforgivable violation of his being— “You won’t let me _live_ , you won’t let me **die** ” is exactly the crux of it— and still agreed to work with him. Such thinking is anathema.

Clark Kent is a better man than Bruce ever was.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

“I… have the equipment in the medical bay,” Bruce replies stiffly. Then he walks away. At this point, Clark _shouldn’t_ be surprised by the other man’s practical curtness, but he still is. _And maybe that explains, in part, why he decided to **kill** you_, a voice in his head says: _it was practical_. He frowns, but follows Bruce anyway.

Like the rest of the cave, the med bay is all smooth, artificial corners, industrial lighting, and clean steel. It is only personal in the sense that its lack of comfort, of any unnecessary things, is extremely _Batman_. _But is it Bruce?_ Clark sits intuitively on the examination table and resists the strong, sudden urge to swing his dangling legs. He watches Bruce move about silently, preparing.

Bruce retrieves a small, oblong lead box. He sets it on the counter next to the sink, then reaches into one of the cabinets and withdraws a single petri dish, and sets it next to the box. Then he goes to the sink and scrubs his hands. Clark tears his gaze away, feeling vaguely nauseous. This will be the first time he’s faced kryptonite since— since then.

After another moment, Clark looks again, the tension too strong. He watches as Bruce wipes his hands, then pulls on a pair of disposable gloves. He places the lead box on the table next to Clark and places the petri dish on the table as well. Clark shivers. Bruce, with his hand on the box, hesitates. Clark tries not to wince as he hears the other man’s teeth grind.

“It’s fine,” Clark says automatically; he’s been saying it since his return, to everyone. It feels almost true now— sometimes. But Bruce still doesn’t move. Finally, Clark meets his hard gaze.

“Are you sure?” Bruce asks slowly. Clark nods. Bruce bends down and withdraws a plastic box from one of the cabinets beneath the examination table. Inside are cotton swabs, alcohol wipes, band-aids, and other supplies. “I know you aren’t really vulnerable to bacteria, but it’s the principle of the thing,” Bruce mutters as he rips open a packet of wipes.

He very deliberately grabs Clark’s wrist and swabs at a patch of skin. The feeling of the gloves almost distracts him from the sudden invasive closeness of Bruce’s pulse. Almost. Bruce is tense too. _This is the closest they’ve been since the night he came back_.

Then Clark has to close his eyes as Bruce slowly reaches for the small box. He doesn’t want to see this. In his ears, his own pulse is loud. He doesn’t want to see this— see that horrible green glow, see his own skin cut— he doesn’t want to see it and remember the _shock_ he’d felt, last time (he hadn’t known he could be **hurt** like that. Seeing Doomsday’s spike sticking out of his own chest, for the second he’d still been alive to respond to it, had been _odd_. Odd in a horrible, not-funny way).

And then Bruce opens the box and a sharp sliver of pain punches through Clark’s skull.

He sucks in one sharp breath, and— _darkness. Wet. Rain. The grit of the crumbling cement as it presses into his cheek. Pain_. Pain. It’s like a flash of lightning over his arm, and Clark feels himself start to bleed. He feels numb. Then the pain is abruptly gone. Clark opens his eyes, sees a decent-sized piece of skin— _his_ skin— sitting innocuously in a petri dish, and vomits.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

This time, Bruce takes no pleasure in slicing into Superman.

Technically, he hasn’t before— Batman had merely inflicted blunt-force trauma and asphyxiation upon Superman— because it was Doomsday who did the cutting. But a pang still runs through him, as he watches Clark’s fear response occur. It’s almost a punishment, watching him be afraid here. Bruce doesn’t blink. He doesn’t let himself look away. So he doesn’t miss the fact that Clark hasn’t been breathing this whole time, that his eyes close as soon as Bruce’s hand touches the lead box. He knows _exactly_ what Clark’s seeing, knows what he’s feeling; the symptoms of PTSD, unsurprisingly, are something Bruce is familiar with. He grimaces privately, and is, for a selfish second, _glad_ that Clark’s eyes are closed.

Bruce doesn’t wish to cause Clark too much inconvenience, so he only collects a thin layer of epidermis, about two inches long, from Superman’s forearm. As he watches him **bleed** , Bruce asks himself, _how had he ever imagined that the man before him could not be hurt?_ He feels guilty, and not for the first time. After he’s made the cut, Bruce hastily puts the scalpel back in its box (he’ll dip it in sanitizing solution later), then places the sample— _K.E. Epi. LI_ — in a petri dish and sets it on the examination table.

Clark finally opens his eyes, glances down at the petri dish and— Bruce has had enough experience with ~~his own sick kids~~ illness over the years to recognize when someone is about to vomit. He thrusts the trashcan under Clark’s face just in time, and has the unpleasant auditory experience of listening to Superman throw up.

After a moment of quiet breathing, Clark takes the trashcan from Bruce’s hands, and Bruce uses his distraction to whisk away the sample and puts it into the lab’s biohazard fridge (which contains small samples of Crane’s fear toxin, Joker gas, Ivy’s many poisons, and other illicit and dangerous concoctions he’s gathered over the years). Clark squeezes his eyes shut and sets the trashcan down with a thunk.

When his task’s done, Bruce hovers awkwardly. He… he wants to do something, but surely it’d be _worse_ for Batman of all people to attempt to comfort Clark right now. Clark exhales quietly, once, and then blinks open his eyes. His gaze flits over Bruce, and Bruce has the unpleasant suspicion that he’s being scanned.

“So that happened,” Clark murmurs stiffly.

Bruce’s jaw twitches and he closes his eyes for a long moment. “Don’t,” he says. He feels like there’s acid in his veins, like he’s drowning in a bitter sea of **guilt**. _Look at what you’ve done_ , his mind sneers. _This is the impact of the Bat. This is exactly what you wanted_. With a jolt, Bruce feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder. He opens his eyes. Clark’s standing in front of him, hand clasped over Bruce’s shoulder. _It should be the other way around_.

“Hey,” Clark says. “It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ okay!” Bruce snaps. “What I— it’s not.” _I **killed** you_. _I’m sorry_.

Clark stiffens for a brief moment. Then he sighs, and removes his hand from Bruce’s shoulder. He sits back down on the examination table and pats the space next to him. Bruce inelegantly makes his way toward it and sits. As Clark slowly swings his legs, Bruce is quiet, watching him. Finally, Clark twists slightly, so he’s looking at Bruce and says, slowly, “I— you’re right. It’s not okay.” Bruce flinches as a cold wave of dread crashes through him.

“But,” Clark continues, “it’s also _not_ not okay, Bruce. Look, I get why you did it now. I do. But… but I wasn’t exactly so _innocent_ either, and you didn’t actually kill me. Yes, you- you harmed me, but **you** didn’t _kill_ me, and you’ve done a lot since then. It may not be okay— _I_ may not be okay— but I want to move past it. You should too.” For a moment, Bruce _stares_ , absolutely incredulous.

 _Clark_ , he thinks, _is too damn good_.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

After his… impromptu speech, Bruce is quiet. His face wears a distant, thoughtful expression, one that Clark is coming to be familiar with. It means Bruce is spiraling. At first, he hadn’t noticed it, that this was something that Bruce _did_ , and then, slowly, he had. Diana had noticed his noticing, and explained quietly that, “For all his flaws, Bruce _cares_. Though it may be of little consolation, he does nothing without a reason, and any mistake he makes is held closely to his chest, after.”

At the time, Clark had nodded, but he hadn’t understood, had been too distracted by the near-hysterical thought, _is it better that he **meant** it? _to think about the meaning of Diana’s words. Not until it had been revealed that not only had Bruce argued— _fought_ , really— to bring him back, but he’d also bought the bank and saved the farm, had he understood. It was not until Clark had seen the guilt in his eyes that he’d thought: _Diana was right_. Now that truth is reemphasized.

But Clark still can’t keep himself from wondering, _is it Bruce’s mistakes that worry him, or his **intentions**?_

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce takes another moment to control himself and then huffs. He _refuses_ to let himself be annoyed at Clark for not taking the time to awkwardly sneak away. It’d have been more convenient for him, it’s true, but it’s not Clark’s _job_ to be convenient for Bruce. When he’s finally gotten a handle on himself, Bruce looks up. Clark is waiting, and meets his gaze. _He probably tracked my breakdown_. That _does_ send a pang of pique through Bruce; he can’t help it. Even if he doesn’t— _can’t_ — hate Clark now, his otherworldliness sometimes still bothers Bruce. He doesn’t like invasions of his privacy.

Clark gives him another moment, then stands, a rather odd expression on his face. It looks like he’s been caught in-between a grimace and a smile. _Same_ , Bruce thinks, before he can stop himself. “Well,” Clark says, “I should go.”

Bruce stands too. “See you around.”

Clark gives a half-nod and ducks out of the med bay.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

After the… _interesting_ fieldtrip to Gotham, Clark goes back to doing what he does best these days: sitting on the old, creaky porch swing (the one that Jonathan Kent built and put in when Clark was ten), staring up at the endless Kansas sky, trying to decide what shade of blue it is (similar to Bruce’s eyes, he finds), and helping Ma around the house and farm. His life falls into an easy pattern of sowing seeds, watering plants, washing dishes, sweeping, folding laundry, lying on the roof, and making tense small talk with Ma. Clark— he’s _never_ needed the grander things in life, but… but Clark finds that he’s _bored_.

He’d almost say that he’s ready to come back, except—

Except another part of his new routine is waking with a gasp from nightmares, covered in sweat, with a scream boiling his throat.

He takes to sleeping with a lamp on.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce doesn’t run any major experiments with the small first sample of _K.E. Epi. LI_. Instead, he carefully documents the parts of Clark’s cells, and compares them to textbook examples of normal human skin cells. The only significant differences between Clark’s cells and the structure of a human cell are that Clark has double the number of normal mitochondria (if they are, in fact, the Kryptonian-equivalent to a cell’s powerhouse) and the response of his ribosomes to outside factors like Earth sunlight, red light, and kryptonite. _The only difference between Clark and a human, between Superman and Bruce, is genes. One is genetically human, the other **is** human_.

The cells, when exposed to kryptonite, go into rapid die-off— as if a human’s skin were exposed to deadly levels of UV or nuclear radiation. This is expected, but still fascinating, in a gruesome way, to see and experience up-close. It also sends a hot stab of guilt through him. _To think that Clark had felt **that** , when fighting Batman_.

However, when exposed to a dose of artificial light (the equivalent of a warm, sunny day), the ribosomes kick into high-gear and produce many more proteins than they would under base-normal conditions. _K.E. Epi. LI._ mitochondria also increase energy production. Moments after kryptonite exposure, the cells are healed with the assistance of light.

Alfred is only able to lure Bruce away from the lab with the promise of dinner.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

The three-month anniversary of his— his **_death_** comes, and it isn’t getting better. Clark considers asking, ‘Hey, Ma, could you pick me up a self-help book when you run to the store? One called _So You Died: But You’re Back, And You Don’t Know How to Be Anymore_?’ But he doesn’t ask this; that kind of book doesn’t _exist_ , and never will, unless Clark himself chooses to write it.

For a moment, he has a hysteria-and-sleep-deprivation fueled fantasy of him turning in a draft of the book-turned-serialized-article to Perry: “Here. It’s rough, I know, but I think it’ll be useful. Oh, by the way, I’m _Superman_.” Clark laughs into his pillow until he cries. The tears last longer than the laughter. He decides to visit Bruce.

Maybe he has a self-help book for Clark.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

It’s three in the afternoon— early even for him to be leaving work— when Bruce brings the car to a stop in the lake house’s driveway. His shoulder, both knees, and back protest as Bruce stands, and several joints _pop_. It’s just another unwanted reminder that he can’t do this forever. Bruce sighs tiredly, and glides a hand through his slicked-back hair. Then he steels himself to deal with Alfred. He’ll be wearing kid gloves today, and Bruce isn’t prepared to deal with that kind of bullshit— the last time Alfred went easy on him was when Jason died.

Only, Alfred isn’t here. Bruce suddenly remembers that it’s Wednesday, which means it’s a grocery shopping day. He feels relieved, and lets his shoulders sag. Then Bruce feels guilty. And what’s the best way to combat guilt? Being busy.

Bruce heads down to the cave and strips off his jacket, cuff links, tie, and shoes. He slips on a pair of work boots and heads to the lab. He turns on the Titian 80-300 microscope and retrieves his tablet specifically for lab work— Bruce has custom programs on it that allow him to sketch out and diagram different procedures and experiments (he constructed it himself). He puts his nose down and _works_.

But half an hour later, Clark shows up.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎ 

Batman— well, Bruce, really, seeing as he’s in about three quarters of a suit still, is in the labs. It’s 3:30 p.m., and honestly? Clark is kind of surprised to actually find him here. He… well, he’d been _hoping_ that Bruce would be here, but he hadn’t been **expecting** it. In fact, if it’d just been Alfred here, that would have been okay too. In that case, Clark would have asked if he could wait inside the lake house until Bruce was back, and then spent the next several hours sitting in the living room, staring at Bruce’s eclectic collection of books, or on the back porch, soaking in Gotham’s meager sun. But Bruce _is_ here, and he looks… almost equally as surprised to see Clark. Oh. _Maybe he **does** know what today is_.

Bruce spins away from the metal table and says quietly, “Clark. I wasn’t expecting you.” Clark hears the ‘Why are you here?’ loud and clear anyway.

“I was bored,” he says honestly.

Bruce goes still, and Clark’s heart lurches painfully as he watches the other man’s facial expression twitch between deliberately uninterested and cautiously hopeful. Clark knows he’s thinking: _if he’s bored, he’s getting **better**_. And that thought can only lead to Bruce believing that maybe Clark is _ready_ to be Superman again. “Oh,” Bruce says neutrally. But it doesn’t fool Clark.

There’s a pressure in his chest. _Maybe this was a bad idea_. He opens his mouth to make an excuse, to say, ‘I was just dropping by,’ or ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ or even ‘I need to _leave_ ,’ but Bruce’s eyes just… go soft. Like twin pools. “Clark,” he says calmly. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. I understand. I don’t _expect_ you to be.” _You don’t owe the world anything_.

Clark realizes that his shoulders are bunched up by his ears, that his suddenly-clenched fists are shaking. He nods wordlessly. “Wh-what are you working on?”

Bruce huffs. “ _You_ , actually. Take a seat.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce is an absolute dumbass. He knew this before, but his actions today have just confirmed the diagnosis. He sees Clark, and is _surprised_ — but not unpleasantly so— at his presence here, especially today. He is even more surprised by Clark’s admission that he’s bored. That’s a good sign. _If he’s bored, then he’s not scared, not busy dealing with the monsters that live in his own head. If he’s bored, then **maybe** Superman is one step closer to returning_.

“Oh,” he says neutrally. Because while Bruce may hope for Superman’s return— for the birth of a new era, in more ways than one— he of all people has no _say_ in Superman’s actions. Even less regarding Clark Kent’s.

But Bruce has never been a good liar— except to himself— and Clark ~~is~~ was at one point both a talented investigative journalist and the most powerful being on Earth. He’s not fooled by Bruce. So he watches Clark read his facial expressions (and probably other things, but Bruce doesn’t think about _that_ ). He sees the moment that Clark comprehends that Bruce is hopeful about Superman’s imminent return. He observes the sheer _panic_ that this causes in the other man.

Bruce considers saying, ‘If you need someone to talk to, I have an acquaintance, Dinah Lance.’ But he doesn’t. That would be overstepping whatever strange, misshapen bounds their current relationship is defined by, he can feel it. Besides, then Bruce would have to explain _why_ he knows a woman like Dinah Lance. So he doesn’t.

Clark opens his mouth, clearly to make an excuse to leave, and Bruce… he just can’t stand by and _let him_. He has a sudden flashback to watching Clark’s skin cells wither in a petri dish after kryptonite exposure. “Clark,” Bruce says calmly. “If you’re not ready, you’re not ready. I understand. I don’t _expect_ you to be.” _I **never** expected anything from you. All I ever did was project my own fears and insecurities **onto** you_.

After that, Clark seems to calm down, and decides to stay. He makes an awkward subject change, and that’s that. Bruce doesn’t call him on it. He may be a socially-awkward, repressed asshole, but he’s not a dick.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Two hours have passed since Clark essentially decided to invade Bruce’s home. Somehow, he finds that he’s feeling… okay. Less antsy, less ready to twitch out of his own skin, or to launch himself into the stratosphere. It is, to say the least, both _ironic_ and probably very fucked up that he’s feeling that way here. With Bruce.

But this is the best he’s felt since he came back, so even if that leaves him sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with his would-be murderer, Clark will _take it_. He sighs aloud, and blinks. Then he realizes that it’s been at least 45 minutes since either of them spoke. _When Bruce isn’t trying to kill a guy, he’s oddly relaxing to be around_.

As if thinking of him is some sort of trigger, Bruce looks up from his tablet. “If the Fortress or the ship have any additional information on Kryptonian biology, I’d appreciate a copy of it,” he says, suddenly. Clark blinks. The Fortress. _God, it’s been literal **years** since he’s been there_. But Bruce, understandably, doesn’t know that.

“I’ll check. Although, just to warn you, Bruce, you might have to come up to retrieve it. I haven’t quite figured out how to reconfigure the tech to be compatible to Earth-standard yet,” Clark says unthinkingly. Bruce stills.

For a moment, Clark hears his heart _lurch_. Oh. He’s surprised. Batman is silent for a long minute, and Clark pretends like he can’t hear Bruce losing his shit. He hopes, vaguely, that he hasn’t caused the other man to have an aneurysm. “Fine by me. Just give me a date and time,” Bruce says finally.

Clark grins. “Will do,” he replies, standing. It’s probably near dinner time in Smallville, and Ma will be worried if he’s not back soon. “See you around.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Of course it happens on Superman’s first mission back. It’s been three weeks since his last— obviously spur-of-the-moment— visit to the cave, and this was the day Clark had decided that Superman would be making his big return. Of course it happens in broad daylight, and so there is little Batman or Bruce can do. Besides, it still takes _time_ to fly to Metropolis, even with the jet. Of course everything has to go **_wrong_**. The villain, calling himself Toyman of all things, is new, and, in his own demented way, brilliant.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

“Superman.” The voice is low and insistent, and resonates in that small, shattered corner of Clark’s soul. _No_. _No. **No**_. “Superman, I need you to listen! It’s Toyman, he’s got his hands on nanobots, and—” Clark shudders, and swings out at **that** voice. No, he won’t— Clark stumbles to his feet, and glares at the Gotham Bat.

Then he squints, and looks around. _It’s dark. Dark! A cave. He’s **underground**. In the **Batcave**_. His breathing becomes more rapid, and Clark blinks furiously. _Why aren’t his eyes **working**? _Then he sees _it_. Clutched in the Bat’s hand is a small, glowing shard of _kryptonite_.

Superman bellows, and goes to fly at him— except he _can’t_. He can’t because of the kryptonite. Batman seems to realize this too, but what he **doesn’t** know is that even before Clark could fly, he had his speed. He lunges forward, and Batman, Bruce Wayne, seems to realize what he’s doing seconds later.

“Diana!” the Bat calls out.

Suddenly, there’s a sharp tug on Clark’s cape— she’s trying to stop him. But it’s not _fast_ enough. Not fast enough to stop Clark’s fist from slamming into Batman’s midsection as he leans those final few inches forward. Even weakened, the force of Superman’s punch sends the vigilante flying through the air and straight into one of the cave’s walls. He hits it with a loud smack, then falls limply to the floor.

“I am sorry, Clark, but this is for your own good,” comes Wonder Woman’s apologetic voice from behind him. He briefly feels one of her arms around his neck, and then there is nothing.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

When Bruce comes to, he feels high. But not in the pleasant, fuzzy, and warm kind of way. More like he’d _been_ on the good drugs, and is now coming off them. He blinks slowly, and stares up at his own master bedroom ceiling, and the cool, afternoon light that’s coming in through the windows. He sighs. _So he’s been out for at least a day, then. Wonderful_. Bruce runs a hand through his hair, wincing as the motion tugs at his… well, _everything_ , and tries to remember what happened.

Oh, right. Superman tossed him into a _goddamn **wall**_. In his own cave. “Why am I not surprised,” Bruce mutters to himself. He blinks at the ceiling again, and considers trying to sit up.

He _could_ , if he really wanted to, but if Bruce is being honest with himself, he’d rather not deal with this shit for at least several more hours. Because he _will_ have to deal with it. But not until later. As best he can, Bruce adjusts his pillows, pulls up his blankets, and makes himself comfortable.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Clark wakes up with a killer headache, and a clogged nose. He groans, and blearily works on figuring out where the hell he is. After a moment, he sits up and sees that his location, apparently, is the Batcave’s med bay. He’s still in his costume— so shit must have happened on the last mission then— and his head _hurts_. He squints at the cave ceiling, trying to remember what, exactly, happened. And then it hits him.

“Oh no,” Clark groans. “No, no, no, no.”

He scrubs a hand over his face, and looks around again— nobody’s here. But there _is_ a note from Diana, and a box of tissues next to it. The note says: “Clark, I am sorry I could not be there when you wake, but I have urgent business to attend to in my own city. Cyborg says that the nanobots are deactivated, and your body should be able to flush them out over the next few days.”

 _Well, at least there’s **one** bit of good news_, Clark thinks, as he reaches for a tissue. The gunk that comes out of his nose is _silver_ , and if he looks closely enough, Clark suspects he’ll see the remains of tiny, tiny robots in it. He does not look closer. “This is great,” he tells himself sarcastically, “Just _wonderful_.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

The next time Bruce comes to, he feels every one of his 45 years. His mouth, expectedly, is dry as cotton and his breath is frankly disgusting. He can also _feel_ the grime and sweat that still coat his skin. Plus, his hair is greasy. There’s a glass of water and a bottle of pills on his bedside table, and his cell phone sits next to the other items. So Alfred’s been here then.

Bruce chugs the water and swallows two of the pills. _Well_ , _time to figure out what’s wrong_. He sits up, and groans. “Oh, _fuck me_.” And, obviously, that’s exactly the moment when Clark’s face appears in the half-open doorway. Bruce sighs, and flops dramatically against his pillows. “Well, if you’re going to just _stand there_ , you might as well come in.”

Clark, clearly reluctant, creeps into the room. Bruce closes his eyes briefly, and suppresses another sigh. He’s got no idea what time it is, or even the day, and now there’s _this_ to deal with. Worse, Clark’s clearly showered and changed— Bruce recognizes the smell of his own shampoo on the other man, and the spare clothes Clark’s put on are also his. Bruce isn’t vain, but he _does_ have standards. Not being beat-to-hell and in need of a shower are two of them.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

“How’re you?” Bruce asks bluntly, in that Batmanish way that only he can. Clark sighs, and tries not to wince. He feels a lot better after the shower and change of clothes— his head feels less full of nanobots, too— but that’s all physical. Emotionally, Clark’s not so sure. He hasn’t been brave enough to check the news, and hasn’t reached out to Diana or any of the others yet.

‘Like I just got beat half-to-hell,’ he considers saying. Only that wouldn’t be _fair_ to poor Bruce, who **actually** did get beat up. By Clark. So he scratches that idea, and instead, ponders the veracity of the statement, ‘Like I just fucked up Superman’s big comeback.’ But he doesn’t _want_ to talk about that right now.

So instead, he says, “Fine. Better than you probably are, anyway.” _Oh Jesus. Nice going, Kent._ Clark closes his eyes, and wishes, for one millisecond, that he was dead again. At least then he wouldn’t be able to put his entire goddamned foot in his mouth. Bruce is silent, for a moment, and then he laughs.

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. Although,” Bruce sighs quietly, and his eyes abruptly go _serious_ , “we should talk.” Clark’s mouth goes dry, and he swallows.

“ _Bruce_ ,” he tries to say, “look— we don’t need to do this now.”

“Oh,” Bruce says grimly, “but I think we _do_.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Batman is a detective. Give him enough clues and he’ll be able to solve _any_ case. So, what does he know about this situation? There are several things, but the most essential is that Toyman’s nanobots had been designed to mess with Superman’s _brain_. They’d been engineered to take him down with fear, more specifically. And what was the first thing Clark had been _afraid_ of? The Bat. Bruce knows that, objectively speaking, there are _plenty_ of things that Superman’s amygdala could have conjured up for him to be afraid of. But it **hadn’t** been any other thing, it had been a man in a Batsuit.

He’d feared the Batman so much, in fact, that he’d tossed him into a fucking wall. So, what does Bruce know? That despite Clark’s claims that he’s moved on, that he’s _ready_ to be Superman again, that he’s **fine** — clearly, he is _not_ alright. And that is what’s wrong here. “I think,” he says slowly, “you came back too soon.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

“I think,” Bruce says slowly, “you came back too soon.”

 _No_ , Clark thinks. _No. **No**_. This is not happening. Superman is _not_ getting benched. “No,” he says bluntly. Bruce struggles to sit up more, and winces as he adjusts his pillow. Clark stands there stiffly, feeling torn. When Bruce is more upright, he grunts, and turns his attention back to Clark. Clark returns his stare.

“Listen to me, Clark,” Bruce says firmly, blue eyes hard as ice. “I know a thing or two about burnout. I _know_ what happens if you go back out into the field before you’re ready— you cock things up. You may **want** Superman to be ready to come back; hell, I do too, and so does the whole goddamned world. But he has to _actually be_ ready for it to work. I know how much pressure you feel, to get back out there and help, but you won’t be helping _anyone_ if you go out there and panic.”

A part of Clark hears Bruce, and that same part of him _agrees_. He knows, deep down, that he’d rushed Superman’s return to the public eye. He _knows_ that. What Bruce is saying is dead on the money— and it should be, the man has been doing this **for twenty years** , so he knows what the job’s like— but listening to Bruce’s advice would also make things _worse_.

It’s not just that Clark’s _certain_ that backpedaling Superman’s return is a bad idea, but that— that _Clark_ needs for Superman to be fine, too _._ Superman **has** to be fine, because if he’s fine, then… then all of it— him dying, breaking up with Lois, losing his _identity_ — will have been worth it. If Superman is fine, then Clark will have a purpose. He won’t just be a walking ghost, a living dead man. If Superman is fine, then Clark will have to be, too. And if Superman isn’t there, then he won’t— then _Clark_ won’t—

“No. Look, you’re not completely wrong, Bruce, and I do… appreciate the concern. But if I do that— if I dip my feet back in and suddenly withdraw again, _especially_ after the fuck-up that was our last mission— people will begin to have doubts. And I can’t afford that.” _We **both** know what happened the last time people had doubts_, Clark thinks cynically.

Bruce must either catch onto his train of thought (not impossible, given how perceptive he is), or he himself must have similar concerns. Either way, he flinches, and a sour, twisted grimace mars his features for a few seconds, until he wipes it from his mouth. Bruce sighs again, and looks tired. Like, really, really _tired_.

“Clark,” he says quietly, “you need more time. Clearly, you are still… _dealing with_ what happened, what I—” Bruce cuts himself off. A thick and noxious silence fills the room.

Clark frowns, frustrated. _It’s the same shit all over again. He tells Bruce to **drop it** , and the other man clings harder_. “Bruce,” he snaps, “I _told you_ that it’s fine. Alright? We. Are. Good. So would you please—”

Bruce snarls. “NO, WE’RE NOT FUCKING ‘ _FINE_ ,’ CLARK— you threw me into a goddamned _wall_ just a couple of days ago, in case you don’t remember. Of all the shit that Toyman’s little robots could have made you see, you reacted to the Bat. To **me**. So even if you want to tell yourself otherwise, we are _not_ okay.”

For the first time since the mission, Clark feels **_guilty_**. Well, okay, yeah, _of course_ he felt bad about tossing his colleague into a wall and breaking several of his bones (among other things), but had he _agonized_ over it? Well, no… not exactly. Clark had been too caught up with his own problems. _Maybe Bruce is right_.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I‐I would never… I didn’t _mean_ —”

“It’s fine, Clark,” Bruce says, “wasn’t any **worse** than what I did to you.” He looks down at his hands, which are clasped in his lap; and although Clark is _staring_ , Bruce still doesn’t look up. _Alright, well… fine. If that’s how he’s going to be, then... **Fine**_.

“See,” Clark says angrily, “you tell _me_ to take a break, to deal with my shit, but look at you! I told you I’m fine. I’ve moved past our fight. You didn’t kill me. It’s _you_ who has the problem, Bruce. You can never let things go.” Clark huffs. He turns on his heels and leaves without looking back.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Clark leaves with a huff, and doesn’t look back. So he doesn’t see Bruce’s startled expression. “It’s _you_ who has the problem, Bruce. You can never let things go,” Clark had said. And that, _that_ scares Bruce. Because that was one of the last things Dick said to him before leaving. _What a shit-show_.

“Great going. You really fucked that one up,” he mutters to himself. Bruce briefly considers taking another pill and zonking out for a few more hours. But after this most recent fight with Clark, he knows that sleep, if it comes to him at all, will be fleeting and filled with nightmares. Even with a third pill. So, instead, he decides to shower.

Bruce grunts and curses, but eventually manages to get himself out of bed. He _could_ call Alfred, who would be willing to (and has before) help him into the shower. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because the man has enough shit to deal with without Bruce’s body being _difficult_. Also, Bruce knows himself, and knows that after the rough-and-tumble (both the verbal and physical one) with Superman, he needs to decompress. So Bruce showers, and only then does he call Alfred. It’s fine.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Two weeks pass. Clark splits his time between Smallville and Metropolis. _I’ll take it slow_ , he tells himself. _It’ll be fine._ He does an interview with Lois (incredibly awkward, but necessary), saves cats from trees. He puts out several fires, pulls people from car crashes, catches a fucking plane, deals with more of Toyman’s henchpeople, stops a bank robbery, interferes in five muggings, prevents a kidnapping, and— okay. Okay. There _is_ no taking it slow.

Bruce was right, the asshole. _What if **I** can’t do it anymore? _But he **can’t** stop now. He can’t. People have _just_ started to depend on him again. It would be selfish and cruel. And yeah, Ma— and _Bruce_ — might say, “You don’t owe the world anything,” but he kinda _does_.

Clark lands in the middle of a cornfield, puts his head between his knees, and tries to _breathe_.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Another week passes, _and wow. It’s **quite** the ego hit, realizing how damn right Bruce was about everything_. Clark gathers the ashes of his pride, and tries to think of a plan. He wants to apologize to Bruce, and he wants to do it in a way that _won’t_ fuck things up even more between them. Then Clark remembers, from what feels like decades ago, his impromptu invitation to the Fortress, and Bruce’s excitement about it. _Perfect_.

Diana texts him in a fairly pointed way about the next league meeting, and Clark, for approximately the millionth time since his resurrection, feels like an asshole. League meetings are yet another thing he has neglected. _He’s been kind of self-centered, hasn’t he?_ Clark sighs, and replies, _I’ll be there_. He puts it on Ma’s chalkboard.

The afternoon of the league meeting (because not everyone is nocturnal) arrives, and Clark gets to the lake house just on time, so he doesn’t have the option to chicken out. He takes a moment to compose himself, then flies down and sets off the cave’s sensors— i.e. ‘Batman’s doorbell,’ as Barry calls it. He’s let into the cave, and sees that Diana, Victor, Barry, and even _Aquaman_ are here. But not Bruce. He frowns.

Diana looks up from the computer, sees him, and smiles. “Clark,” she greets warmly, “how have you been?”

Clark opens his mouth, about to say, ‘Fine,’ but remembers that this is Diana. So he sighs, and lets a fraction of the tiredness he’s feeling show. “I’m okay. Been busy lately. You?”

Diana frowns for a microsecond, then wipes the expression from her face. “I have also been busy. But the good kind. You are probably wondering where our resident Bat is, are you not?”

Clark almost laughs. _Is he really **that** obvious?_ “Well, yeah, I suppose.”

“He had a last-minute board meeting. But I am sure that _you_ are capable of leaving notes, and that Bruce is capable of _reading_ them.” Clark laughs, even though Diana’s comment is probably meant to be more pointed than funny. But she’s right. And, knowing Bruce, he’ll try to get back to Clark as soon as possible, unless he’s well and truly swamped. Bruce _always_ gets back to Clark (even more than some of the team, which he tries not to think about).

“Alright, I’ll leave him a note. Do you know where Batman keeps his pens and paper?”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce has a fairly in-depth preliminary report on Kryptonian squamous cells completed. He hasn’t been able to develop any new anti-kryptonite methods from his brief studies, but he does feel like he has a better basic understanding of Clark’s biology. But without more information, he can’t really begin to even speculate on technology that might ~~stop Clark from dying again~~ help Superman. This is annoying.

He’s also frustrated because the league are holding a meeting without him, and Batman _hates_ being not up-to-date on league (or world) happenings. So when he gets home— finally— he’s in a pretty foul mood. That is, until Alfred tells him, “You have a note from Mr. Kent, Sir. In the basement.” _Ah. Well this will be interesting_. Alfred, if he knows about Batman and Superman’s latest fight, doesn’t say anything.

“Great. Guess I better go down to the basement and see what Mr. Kent wants.”

“Very well, Sir. May I expect you up for dinner?”

“I suppose so.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Clark’s cell phone— also courtesy of Bruce— beeps in the middle of the night. He looks blearily at the screen, and sees he has a text from a mystery number. He groans and turns over. Clark opens his messaging app, and types: _Hello?_

 _I got your note._ It figures that Bruce Wayne is as succinct over text as he is in person.

“I figured,” Clark mutters. _Great. If you still want to, lmk what time works._

There’s a pause in the conversation, which lasts a few minutes. Clark starts to drift off, but is prevented from completely falling asleep by Bruce’s reply: _Noon this Saturday._ There’s no question mark, of course, but Clark understands it’s one anyway. Typical Bat.

Clark sends a thumbs up emoji, and attempts to find sleep.

This is halted, yet again, by Bruce. _Good night_.

 _You too_ , Clark sends, before thinking it through. He hesitates a moment, then saves Bruce’s number in his contacts as ‘Bruce.’ _Is this_ , he wonders, _technically a friendship now?_

He’s fairly positive that Bruce will have nothing to say to his latest text, but he waits, just in case. If Clark is going to try and sleep again, he’ll do it **after** the interruptions have ceased. A few seconds later, Bruce replies, _Thank you_. And then he doesn’t text again.

Clark does fall asleep after that.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

The invitation to the Fortress is unexpected, to say the least.

He hasn’t seen Superman for a month now, and he figured that he wouldn’t be seeing much of him in the near future, either. So to come home to Clark’s note is a surprise. A nice one. Without thinking about it, he crouches down on the nearest rooftop with good cover, and initiates a conversation. Two issues become apparent: he never _told_ Clark that he has his phone number, so this, at best, will look stalkerish, and secondly, it’s definitely after midnight in Kansas right now, and Clark’s not as nocturnal as Bruce is.

The third issue is something he doesn’t think about until later: _I never told Clark not to save my number_.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Noon on Saturday arrives quickly. Clark, dressed in his suit, paces the Fortress’ entryway anxiously. The Artic, predictably, is _cold_ , and he’d hate to have to thaw out a Brucecicle because something went wrong. He snorts at the mental image— but in all seriousness, Clark is a bit worried (it’s not like Bruce would be very likely to _tell him_ something is wrong, anyway).

His nerves, in no small part, are fueled too by the fact that this is the first time that he and Bruce will be face-to-face since their argument. This visit is meant to be a peace offering, and Clark doesn’t want to screw that up. He is _also_ nervous because of the minor fact that Jor El knows neither that he _died_ nor about the events that led to his death.

Clark doesn’t make it a habit of coming up here, and he _couldn’t_ when he’d been dead. But after his return, he’s come to… appreciate the _solitude_ the space offers. Also, Clark just… he wants _one person_ (or, in this case A.I.), who doesn’t look at him funny. Who doesn’t ask him how he’s doing. Who doesn’t revere him like a god. Who just treats him like _Clark_. And that’s the kicker, isn’t it? Jor El **doesn’t** treat him like Clark, because he treats him like _Kal_.

Despite this, his father’s A.I. _is_ the only being who still treats him like he’s normal.

When Clark hears the jet land, he hastily opens the door. Bruce emerges from the vehicle, bundled in a thick parka and hat; Clark can’t tell if he’s wearing the suit underneath it all. Bruce strides quickly across the ice, and Clark steps back to let him in. He tries to ignore Bruce’s faint shivering. Inside, Bruce removes his hood and the gloves but keeps his hat on. As he adjusts his coat, Clark sees that Bruce _is_ wearing the suit. He suppresses a smile.

“Glad to see you could make it.”

Bruce nods distractedly, and Clark _feels_ his curiosity skyrocket, can hear the rapid sound of his eyes roaming over his surroundings. He finds it humanizing, how even Batman fails to rein in his curiosity sometimes. When they arrive at the computer, Clark turns it on using the voice activation system, in Kryptonese: “ _Please initiate start up, and launch Jor El A.I. program_.”

The computer boots up and Bruce steps forward, brow furrowing. Clark smiles when he sees the familiar blueish flicker. Soon his father’s head, neck, and chest come into view (he also has a full body mode, but they don’t need that right now). “ _Hello, my son. It is good to see you again. And who is this?_ ” Jor El asks.

And this is when he gets the biggest surprise of the week— perhaps even the _month_.

Bruce steps forward slightly, removing his hat as he does. Jor El’s gaze turns to focus on him. Bruce says, in **_Kryptonese_** , “ _Hello, I am Bruce Wayne, although your son first met me as_ Batman _. I am… a colleague of his. It is an honor to meet you_.”

Jor El blinks in surprise, probably thinking the same thing Clark is: _when in the hell did Batman learn Kryptonese?_ “ _I didn’t know you knew Kryptonese_!” Clark exclaims. And it’s a testament to how _well_ Bruce speaks the language, that Clark exclaims this in (what should have been) his native tongue.

Bruce blinks, and looks… a little _embarrassed_. “I had the ship print me out a phonetic alphabet and high-level summary of the language’s grammatical rules while you— a while ago,” he replies, in English again. Clark takes note of the omission, and is both relieved and curious. _Did he **guess** or does he just not want Jor El to know? Interesting_. Jor El raises an eyebrow— he understands English, but is not the best at speaking it.

“ _That is most impressive. Ours is not an easy language to learn— ask my son_ ,” Jor El says.

“ _Well, if it makes you feel any better about my accomplishments_ ,” Clark says, “ _Bruce speaks several other languages too. So he’s apparently got a knack for them_.”

“ _Eight, Clark_ ,” Bruce says smugly, “ _I learned_ Parsi _a few years ago_.” _Before I went out and learned your native language when you were **dead**_.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce’s heart hammers as he listens to Clark’s command to activate the computer and his father’s A.I. system. He’s been practicing Kryptonese since he had the ship create a sort of _Krytponese for Dummies_ crash course after Superman died. At the time, he’d never imagined he’d be _using it_. Really, Bruce had thought— well, he’d thought it would be **useful** , in case there were ever any more extraterrestrial invaders. But now... he’s _glad_ he took the time to learn it.

Bruce steps forward and introduces himself. In Clark’s— _his father’s_ native language. Both Kryptonians are suitably shocked, and Bruce can’t help but feel gratified. But the experience is also an **odd** one, because it seems that Clark _has not_ told his father who Bruce is, or what he did— _tried t_ o do— to his son.

When Jor El is introduced to Bruce, he doesn’t look disgusted, or angry at his presence here. He does not shoot concerned looks at Clark. So… so maybe Clark hasn’t told his father, well, his father’s _A.I._ (Bruce is not clear on the exact details) that he **_died_** either. So, ~~because Bruce is a coward~~ just to be safe, Bruce doesn’t mention _that_ little bit of history, either. And then the introductions are over, and Clark wanders off somewhere, leaving Bruce and Jor El to get to it.

Eventually, they manage to figure out how best to go about fulfilling Batman’s request. But this in and of itself is a process, and adds another layer of complexity to this whole side project. Because, as Clark had warned, the Fortress’ systems cannot— yet— interface with human technology (and _that’s_ the newest task in this ever-expanding project of Bruce’s: figuring out how to connect Kryptonian and Earth tech). Bruce dutifully retrieves his digital camera and records everything. Helpfully, about half of the pages, and pages, and pages of notes that Jor El brings up are already translated. _Great_ , Bruce thinks, _less work for me_. He only hopes that Jor El’s notes on and diagrams of Kryptonian technology will be as straightforward.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Originally, Clark had planned to stay and translate for Bruce, but he’s not needed in that capacity, so Clark leaves Batman and his father to it. They seem to be getting along, and Bruce has apparently picked up on which things Clark hasn’t told Jor El— if there’s one thing that Clark trusts Bruce not to do, it’s sharing personal information. For some reason though, the ease with which Jor El and Batman are conversing still strikes Clark as _odd_. Or maybe that’s just because he knows what Jor El doesn’t.

A few hours later, Clark’s checked the weapons bay and the basic structural integrity of the Fortress, so there’s nothing really left for him to do. He decides that he might as well see what progress— if any— Bruce and Jor El have made. Knowing _both_ of them, Clark wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve already come up with something. When he enters the computer room, he catches Bruce talking excitedly to Jor El’s A.I.

“ _And do you think there is a way I could integrate that with my systems?_ ” Bruce asks.

Then Jor El notices him. “ _My son. How are things in the Fortress? All is well, I assume_?”

Clark smiles, and nods. “Yes, everything is running perfectly,” he responds in English.

Bruce slides back out from under the computer consul. Clark catches the tail end of one of his shivers— a solid-ice floor is _not_ comfortable, and he’s probably been lying on it for _hours_. Bruce must mistake his expression for something else, because he frowns anxiously back. “Don’t worry, I didn’t break anything. Jor El was supervising,” he says.

Clark sighs. “It’s not _that_ , Bruce. You’re cold.”

Bruce blinks, as if he hadn’t noticed. “I’m not t-that cold,” he protests.

“If we were on Krypton, my son would be quite cold, if he were in an equivalent location,” Jor El remarks in English. Instead of looking angry at his interference, Bruce perks up. Clark glares at his father over Bruce’s head— while the A.I. _was_ trying to help, he’s just derailed any of Clark’s attempts to get Bruce warmed up.

Jor El looks amused. “ _Yes, we had an artic, at some points in our history. But that, I believe, is information to be shared at another time._ ” He glances back at Clark. Clark smiles gratefully.

Bruce actually looks _disappointed_ , and Clark works hard not to laugh— it’s just that Batman doesn’t get very animated about much… at least not in such a _positive_ way. “Yes, my father is right. Come on, I’ll make you something warm to drink before your return trip,” Clark bribes. Bruce glares, to let Clark know that he knows he’s being _manipulated_ , but walks away with Clark anyway. “I’ll be back in a bit,” Clark tells his father. Jor El nods.

He takes Bruce to the kitchen and makes him a hot mug of what, as far as he can tell, is the Kryptonian equivalent of hot chocolate. Bruce doesn’t seem to care. And this causes Clark to frown worriedly again. _Bruce must have been **very** cold, if he’s not complaining_. But he seems fine enough for now.

Bruce takes another sip of his drink. “Your father thinks I may have better luck developing something if I had a sample of your crystals,” he says hesitantly. He does not ask why Jor El seems to be unaware of Clark’s death, or his involvement in it. This is unexpected, and the bit of him that’d been unconsciously waiting for it relaxes.

Clark pauses for a moment. “I don’t see why not. I’ll ask him for a suitable sample. One second.” He flies back to the command center, and finds Jor El in full-body mode, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. Clark gently sets down on the ground. His father smiles.

“ _Bruce is quite an impressive man_ ,” Jor El says.

Clark nods. _Well, he’s not **wrong**_. Even if Jor El doesn’t know that some of the Batman’s accolades come from defeating Jor El’s own son. Clark almost wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. His humor is another thing that’s been fucked up since his return. “ _Yes, he is. Batman is the_ Justice League’s _chief strategist. He’s always got some kind of idea formulated_.” Then, remembering Bruce’s request, he asks, “ _Could you locate an appropriate crystal sample for him?_ ”

“ _Certainly, Kal. Take the fifth one on the left in the second row of my processor_ ,” Jor El says, smiling. “ _I am glad you have found yourself such a suitable companion_.” Then he walks back to the computer and flickers out of sight. Clark blinks, flabbergasted. His Kryptonese is good, but _surely_ he’d misheard.

‘A companion,’ he mouths aloud. Wait… _wait_. Does Jor El think that he and Bruce are together? _Oh, God, he **does**_. Clark laughs from the shock of it. _If only his father knew the whole story_.

He has the desire to turn back on the A.I., and demand to know _why_ Jor El would say something like that. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because that feels… oddly defensive, and he has nothing to be defensive about. So, with a small sigh, Clark shuts off the computer, retrieves the crystal— about the size and width of his ring finger— and flies back to Bruce.

Bruce looks suitably delighted at the sample, and turns it over a few times in his hands before carefully tucking it into one of the belt’s pouches. “Thank you,” he says earnestly, and a smile actually graces his face for a few seconds. _A companion_ , Clark thinks again. _Huh_.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Somehow, another two weeks pass before Bruce sees Clark again.

Well actually, he’s not that surprised— between his duties as Batman, W.E.’s CEO, and the experiments he’s running, Bruce is _busy_. When he’s busy, things like staying in contact tend to slip his mind. This is unfortunate because since the trip to the Fortress, it feels like things have changed between him and Clark, somehow.

It feels _important_ to stay in contact with Clark now. But Bruce hasn’t done that. And alright, **fine**. Maybe his radio silence with Superman is not entirely because he’s busy. It’s partly caused by the change in their relationship, too. Bruce knows that this— this _hesitancy_ — is stupid. But he can’t help it, because in the past, when changes like this have happened in Bruce’s interpersonal relationships, it’s shortly _after_ that when Bruce screws things up. People get to know him, and then they don’t _like_ what they find. And Clark— Bruce would like to not screw this one up (again).

Bruce would like to _not_ screw this one up because… because he thinks that he and Clark, technically, are friends now.

But anyway, the reason (well _part_ of the reason) Bruce loses contact is that he had neglected to ask how to work the crystal sample he’d been given. So he spends the first few days experimenting with methodology— a regular saw does nothing, his batarang is also ineffective, and even his titanium chisel (one never knows when they’ll need to chip their way out of dense material) is minimally effective. Bruce would try the kryptonite scalpel except it’s his only one and he doesn’t want to accidentally damage it or the crystal.

He ends up buying a precision diamond cutter, which works. Bruce cuts up a few samples, most only millimeters thick, and then stores the rest of the crystal. He puts several of the cut-off bits into the mass spectrometer to get a chemical analysis, and looks at the last few under a microscope, so he can analyze the crystal structure. After he has some diagrams, Bruce works on transforming the pictures he took into useful data.

This essentially means transcribing all the documented information into text, and copying any relevant images into these documents. As expected, this takes lots of time— Bruce has to do some translation as well, which only makes the task more tedious. However, he finds it… _enjoyable_. While being Batman is certainly challenging, this is a whole other kind of thing. And this is what he’s doing when Clark approaches him again.

Bruce is bent over his lab tablet, sketching out ideas for how to integrate the Fortress’ systems. The best idea he has is creating a microchip from the crystals. The only problem is, he’s not entirely sure _how_ to do this. Or if it’s even possible. So he forgives himself for being too absorbed to notice Clark, at first.

“Bruce!” Clark calls. Bruce startles, then stills. He sets down the stylus and spins around. Clark looks amused, and Bruce glares. But he lets Clark have his moment— for one time only.

“Hello, Clark. Do you need something?”

Clark snorts, and rolls his eyes. “No. I’m just here to see how things are going.” Bruce blinks, slightly puzzled— _then couldn’t he have just called?_ — and when he understands, he smiles. _Clark **hadn’t** called because… because he wanted to see me_.

Clark smiles back.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Several sleepless days later, Bruce has a breakthrough with the crystals. After consulting the Fortress’ manual (for probably the twentieth time), which Jor El had very helpfully pointed out to him during his visit, Bruce thinks he may have a solution to Clark’s (and his) interface problem. He manages to find several suitable bits of crystal, cuts them, then crafts them into the forms he needs. Four hours later, he has a microchip. Now all he has to do is see if it works.

 _Clark_ , he texts. _I need your help on a project. Meet me at the ship when you’re free_.

 _Sure thing! I’ll be there tonight at 10. What are we working on?_ Clark asks.

At this, Bruce rolls his eyes, feeling oddly nervous— which is ridiculous, because it’s not like this is a formal project or anything. It’s just something he’s doing because it may someday be useful, and Bruce likes to dick around in the lab when he can (which is not that often). But he feels uneasy anyway. _I may have a solution for the interface issue you were having. I also have a preliminary report done about those samples you gave me_ , he says.

 _Alright!_ _Can’t wait to read it, B_ , Clark replies.

Bruce exhales loudly. _Don’t be nervous_ , he tells himself, _there’s **no reason** to be nervous_.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

It hits him like a thunderclap after Clark lets him and his makeshift tech onboard the ship.

He’d been thinking about Clark again, while tinkering with the new microchip. He’d been thinking about Clark’s smile when he told Superman, “Give me a bit longer to work out the kinks, and then you should be able to transfer files from the Fortress to your other devices.” He’d been thinking about Clark’s smile, one of genuine _gratitude_ , when Bruce had handed over his report on Clark’s own cells. This had led to Bruce considering the different types of Clark’s smile, and if he could classify them.

 _Christ_ , Bruce thinks, _why in the hell would I need to classify Superman’s **smiles**?_ He goes back to his lab work. But the idea of classifying Clark’s smiles creeps periodically back into his head, and he just can’t shake it. _There’s his ‘aw shucks’ one, and the sheepish one, and the—_ Bruce cuts himself off with a huff and rubs his eyes. He’s overtired. That must be it. And it _is_ three in the morning anyway. Time to call it a night.

Bruce marches upstairs after he strips out of the suit, and showers. As he’s brushing his teeth, thoughts of Clark continue to invade his head. Bruce growls, and flops down on his bed. He angrily tugs the blankets up and thumps his head down on the pillow and tells himself to shut up. He closes his eyes and _almost_ manages to fall asleep. But a few minutes later, his eyes snap open. _Oh_.

The first thing he thinks when he realizes that he’s in _love_ with Clark is: _Well that explains it_. No wonder he’s been so tetchy around Superman since his return. No wonder Bruce fucking tried to kill him. No wonder he’s one hundred percent gone on the man.

Bruce has always been good at wanting things he can’t have.

Clark is most definitely something unobtainable. First, he doesn’t love Bruce, and he never will. This much is obvious— he’d be genuinely _concerned_ about Clark’s sanity if he did. Then there’s the blunt, honest truth that Clark deserves better. Bruce has already fucked up the man’s life enough as it is— even if they’re friends now, somehow. Surely **dating him** would only amplify Batman’s malignancy. So Bruce loves Clark, but he _also_ knows that the other man can never know this.

Bruce groans, rolls over, and tells himself to go to sleep.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

When Clark finally realizes, he laughs.

He laughs, because he has it **bad** , and it’s the kind of bad that he doesn’t think will be going away any time soon. He laughs because his heart is a **bastard** , and hadn’t notified his brain of its creeping sentiments— even as he’s laughing, Clark pictures Bruce’s face, and how quietly pleased he’d looked as he handed Superman the fruit of his hard work. Clark laughs because _of fucking course_ he’s fallen for Batman, because he is too fucked up to be having _emotions_ right now, because he’s finally started a friendship with Bruce and he doesn’t want to mess that up, because, alright, _fine_ , Clark’s a little angry that he doesn’t get to choose who he loves, because Clark doesn’t want to love Bruce.

 _If only this had happened two years ago_ , he thinks. But life isn’t fair.

If life were fair, then Krypton wouldn’t have blown up. If life were fair, then Clark wouldn’t have been the last surviving member of his species. If life were fair, then Jonathan Kent wouldn’t have asked for his son to let him die in a tornado. If life were fair, then he wouldn’t have _died_ and come back. If life were fair, then Bruce Wayne wouldn’t have witnessed his parents getting shot in front of his eyes when he was eight years old. If life were _fair_ , then Bruce would love— If life were fair, then Bruce would love him back. But that’s not going to happen, because this is the real world, and not some fairy tale, or fantasy novel. The world may have heroes, villains, and otherworldly beings, but unlike in the books, the world doesn’t always appreciate somebody saving it.

So Clark _does_ love Bruce. He does, because under Batman’s hard, hard shell, he _cares_. He tears himself up, he cares so much— and Bruce also _tries_. He’s not perfect, not by _any_ definition of the word, but after doing this for twenty years, he’s still doing it, he’s still **trying**. And after all that’s happened to him, Clark _gets_ why that’s so hard. He understands now, how the Batman who tried to kill him got to be so cynical, after dealing with his own shit. He gets it.

And Bruce would move heaven and Earth to fix a mistake, when he recognizes he’s made one. Bruce would— _has_ — rewritten the rules of life and death, just to make amends to Superman. Bruce would rescue another Martha, buy a bank, risk his _life_ , just to save Clark. Bruce learned Kryptonese for him. So yeah, Clark is in love with Bruce.

But Bruce doesn’t love him back.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

After Clark’s realization, he avoids Bruce like kryptonite. It’s— he needs time. Time to come to terms with it, and time to control it. Life may not be fair, but at the end of the day, Superman still has to be able to work with Batman, and he can’t do that if he’s distracted _by_ Batman. This only lasts for a week because on the last night of Clark’s self-imposed exile, Bruce texts him: _Come to the house_. It is pointedly not a question.

Clark sighs. _When?_

 _Friday at 7. Don’t be late_ , Bruce replies shortly.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Clark arrives at the lake house at 6:55 p.m., and is let in by Alfred. Surprisingly, the butler does not lead him to the cave’s hidden entrance, nor is his greeting overly warm. “Master Bruce awaits you in the dining area, Sir,” he says. They’re both still standing in the entryway. Clark is immediately confused by this because he’s _never_ spent any meaningful amount of time with Bruce in any place other than the cave or the Fortress.

Alfred picks up on his confusion, and takes pity on him. “Master Bruce has taken the liberty of ordering out for the two of you. I believe he has purchased Chinese food,” the Englishman says. If this is supposed to alleviate Clark’s confusion, it does not. He is only _more_ confused by this. _Why would Bruce want him over for dinner?_

“Oh,” Clark says, intelligently. “Okay then. I can find him, Alfred.”

“Very well, Master Kent.” Alfred gives him a remote once-over and leaves.

When he finds Bruce, he’s seated at the overlarge mahogany table on the other side of the open-ended living-kitchen-dining area. He looks up as Clark approaches— another Batman skill, that— and gestures at the neat rows of takeout boxes. “Clark,” he says, sounding pleased. “I hope you like Chinese.”

Clark offers a fragile smile. “I do.” He sits. Bruce pushes a couple boxes at him, and holds up a pair of chop sticks, eyebrow raised. Clark rolls his eyes, and feels his internal turmoil lessen. _Maybe this won’t be so bad after all_. “Yes, I can use chop sticks,” he says.

Bruce laughs, and Clark’s heart nearly shoots out of his chest. _Or maybe not_.

Something in his expression must reflect his distress, because Bruce stops laughing, and his eyes go dark. “I’m sorry,” he says. Clark frowns, and tilts his head slightly. _Okay, so. This is completely **bizarre**_.

“Why?”

“You’ve been… not here for a week, Clark. I must’ve done something.”

Clark opens his mouth to correct Bruce, but cuts himself off before he actually _says_ anything— it would’ve been something like, ‘It’s me, not you’ so this is a good thing. However, if anything, Bruce’s expression gets worse after Clark’s non-reply. “Look. I know we got off to… a _rocky_ start, but I thought— I thought things were getting better between us, and I… appreciated that. So whatever it is I did, I’m sorry,” Bruce says.

 _This is hell_ , Clark thinks. _Like legitimately **hell**_. ‘Bruce,’ he wants to say, ‘not everything is your fault. _This_ is not your fault. I’m not mad at you.’ But he doesn’t, because unless he gave Bruce a specific reason for him “not being here” he won’t believe Clark. And Clark is not going to tell Bruce he’s in love with him because Bruce is right: things _are_ better between them now, and Clark is not willing to jeopardize that. He considers super-speeding out to the lake to scream, but doesn’t.

Instead, Clark offers a flimsy smile to Bruce’s worried eyes, and opens a box. “Szechuan chicken. My favorite.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

The Batsignal interrupts their dinner, and Bruce is ready to kiss whoever set it off. Even though Clark’s here, even though he was willing to listen to Bruce’s apology, _something_ is still wrong. He’s not sure what, but whatever it is, it must be serious. If something _weren’t_ wrong, then Clark wouldn’t have hesitated to interrupt Bruce and explain. To tell him why he’s not kept in touch.

And Bruce knows that, in the grand scheme of things, a _week_ is not a long period of time. But, in their world, things move quickly, and he and Clark haven’t really been out of touch since those first days he’d been back. In fact, when Bruce looks back, he realizes that he and Clark have been talking almost daily over the past few months. So then it’s not really that surprising that he had thought that things were getting _better_.

It had also seemed like things had improved even more after Batman’s recent trip to Metropolis.

Bruce is almost positive that things were getting better, and so, after a week, he decides to ask Clark about it. _Maybe he can still make this right_ — _whatever it is he’s done_. But another part of Bruce is not so sure, and he remembers his earlier fear: that once Clark gets to know him, _really_ know him, he won’t like what he finds.

Or maybe it’s simpler: Clark keeps telling him to forget everything that happened between them, in fact he _insists_ on this, but maybe… maybe **Clark** can’t make himself forget. Maybe he’s, somehow, been reminded recently of what Bruce tried to do to him, and decided that he’s had enough. So when the Batsignal is lit, and Alfred comes to get him, Bruce is _relieved_.

Clark rises from his seat at the table, and Bruce snaps, “Don’t. I— I probably won’t be back anytime soon, so you should finish eating.” He leaves before he can see Clark’s confused, hurt expression, or Alfred’s raised eyebrow.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Alfred disappears momentarily, and returns with a plate. He sits across from Clark, and helps himself to a few boxes of Chinese. Clark, only half-finished with his food, silently goes back to eating. Though he’s sure the meal is from a five star restaurant, it tastes like dust in his mouth. _Well this is a hot mess_ , he thinks sourly. Alfred finishes loading his plate, and reaches for a pair of chopsticks. The sound of them snapping is loud. They eat in silence for a long while. Clark feels miserable.

Finally, the older man sighs. “Master Clark,” Alfred says mildly, “you know, I have managed to learn _several_ important lessons over the course of my life. The importance of communication is one of them.” The butler fixes him with an unreadable yet firm gaze. Clark swallows hastily.

“Oh,” he says. _Is this an Alfred Lecture?_ he asks himself, unsure. Whatever it is, it isn’t more bizarre than this whole evening’s turned out to be. Besides, Clark somehow doesn’t think it’s a good idea to piss off Batman’s father-figure. So he listens.

Alfred nods serenely. He picks up his chopsticks and chews his final bite, then daubs at his mouth with a napkin. “Yes. Communication is quite important in maintaining interpersonal relationships. Master Bruce, as we both know, is, unfortunately, bloody _terrible_ at communication. But, I think, you too may suffer from poor elocution.” With that, he stands, stacks the empty takeout boxes onto his plate, and leaves.

Clark shovels the last few bites of food into his mouth, puts his plate into the sink, and hurries away from the lake house like the devil, or Lex Luthor himself, is on his heels. _He’s been such a dumbass_. He’s thankful he wore the suit, as it means he can leave Bruce’s property much more quickly. He needs to be away from here.

As Clark flies through the dark night sky back to Smallville, he thinks, _How did he not see it?_ Now that Alfred’s pointed it out to him, it’s **obvious**. Like, really, _painfully_ , obvious that Bruce loves him too. Why else would he have done everything he’s done for Clark? Why else would he have taken up the task of helping Clark integrate Earth and Kryptonian technology? Why else would he have been interested in helping Clark understand his alien physiology? Why else would he have learned Kryptonese? Why else would he have been concerned about making Superman’s return right? Why else would he have saved the farm?

Bruce _loves_ Clark, that’s why.

It should have been obvious from the start— there’d been _plenty_ of signs. But Clark had been too stuck inside his own head— too busy unpacking all his thoughts and feelings about what happened, worrying about his (and Superman’s) future— to figure it out. He’d also been too _stubborn_ to figure it out, because while he’s _a little_ justified in how self-centered he’s been, Clark has also neglected the people he’s closest to. The healthier thing would have been for him to talk about his trauma, expunge it from his consciousness, instead of sitting with it and letting himself spiral. And help _had_ been offered— by Bruce, Ma, Diana— but Clark had isolated himself and refused it.

So now he can only hope it’s not too late, and that Bruce will still want him, warts and all.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

In a rare display of pity, Alfred does not question him about last night’s painfully awkward dinner. Not later that night when he gets home from patrol, not the next day, the morning after that, or even the day after. So in return, Bruce doesn’t fight Alfred when he brings meals down to the cave, nor does he protest the Englishman’s subtle hints when he thinks it’s high time for Bruce to go to bed.

Their truce lasts as long as it does because Alfred _also_ fields Clark’s calls for him— be they via phone or in-person. Bruce may not have heard what Clark wants to tell him, but he still knows what he’s going to say. The idea of losing a friendship— _this_ friendship in particular— hurts, and the pain is only slightly caused by Bruce’s infatuation with Clark; he genuinely _likes_ the man too. And if Bruce cannot have Clark romantically, then he’d at least like to have a platonic relationship with him.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

As soon as he’s had his epiphany— and if this goes well, he’ll owe Alfred a huge thank-you later— Clark wants to contact Bruce. But see, the thing is, Alfred is _also_ right about Bruce being **terrible** at communication. So the moment Clark decides to call him is also the moment that Bruce decides that he’s going to avoid Clark. _We’re **both** dumbasses_, he thinks in annoyance.

“Okay. Time for plan B,” Clark mutters.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Several days after the disaster dinner, as Bruce has taken to calling it, Clark comes back. Well, really he finds Batman on patrol, but— he comes _back_. Bruce considers just grappling away, but, by the stubborn pout on Superman’s face, he won’t be leaving anytime soon. So any actions taken to avoid him would only end up _extending_ this awkward encounter. Despite knowing this, Bruce doesn’t give in easily.

“Superman,” he growls, “what are you doing in Gotham?”

“ _Batman_ ,” Superman says, with exasperation. He crosses his arms, and hovers over the Bat— their positions almost exactly mirror their ones by the Batsignal nearly three years ago. Superman frowns, and gently descends until his boots hit the rooftop. He uncrosses his arms and sighs. “I know you’ve been avoiding me.”

“What gave you that impression?” Bruce asks neutrally.

Superman sighs again and throws up his hands. “The fact that you’ve had A— Agent A screen your calls? The fact that whenever I try to come see you, you’re not there? Name one method of avoidance, and you’ve probably used it!”

Bruce growls. _This is fucking fantastic_. “If you’re going to harass me, do it after patrol.” With that, he shoots the grapple gun and swings off the roof. Superman, thankfully, doesn’t follow. But that doesn’t mean he’s given up. Unfortunately. Bruce fully expects to find a super-intruder in the cave when he’s finished with patrol tonight.

And, sure enough, when he returns to the cave at one in the morning, Clark is there.

He’s still in his suit, although, as usual, Superman’s bright red cape and gaudy blue suit look terribly out of place in the oppressive gloom of the Batcave. Bruce sighs, and cuts the tumbler’s headlights. He slams the vehicle’s door closed and rips off the cowl, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling of cowl-hair, and the way he’s dripping on the cave floor (Gotham had lived up to its reputation as a frequently stormy and overcast city tonight).

Superman looks up as Batman strides closer. He appears almost anxious, and Bruce’s stomach twists with a flurry of multiple emotions. _He’s too tired for this_. But even _if_ he told Clark that, the other man wouldn’t be willing to let him off the hook so easily. So Bruce knows that the conversation— whatever subject it’s on— needs to happen now. “Let me get out of this,” he grumbles, walking past Clark. He looks back just long enough to see Superman give him a hesitant nod.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce said that they could have this conversation after patrol— he hadn’t said _when_ after patrol that was though, and Clark knows that if he doesn’t act _now_ , “after patrol” will become _never_. So Clark swallows his nerves because this is too important not to deal with, and heads to the Batcave. Surprisingly, the proximity alarms do not go off at his arrival. Perhaps Bruce remotely turned them off. Or Alfred. Either way, Clark will be here until Batman’s patrol is done.

He settles in and rehearses his speech in his head again.

Several long hours later, the tumbler rumbles to a stop in the cave, and Batman, looking grim, tired, and thoroughly soaked by the rain, climbs out. He doesn’t look injured, doesn’t walk stiffly, or smell of blood, which pleases Clark. He doesn’t want to think that Bruce would deliberately get himself injured, but it _is_ a possibility he can’t quite deny.

Bruce acknowledges him with stony silence, and goes about shutting off the tumbler and stripping out of the cowl. Clark’s stomach lurches for an entirely different reason than nerves when Bruce’s tired face emerges from Batman’s mask. He gives Clark a look, and says, “Let me get out of this.”

Clark nods, and for the first time, feels a bit uncertain about this plan. _Bruce really does look exhausted_ , and is it really fair to spring Clark’s _feelings_ on him now, even if they’re mutual? But Bruce has already walked past him, and he knows that if he chickens out now, he’ll never be brave enough to bring it up again. He deserves a bit of happiness in his life, goddamnit, and if _Bruce_ can bring him some of that, then Clark should at least try to get Bruce to see it too.

Bruce emerges from the locker rooms smelling clean and freshly-showered. He’s wearing a pair of sweatpants that sit low on his hips and do nothing for Clark’s mental state. He’s got a Wayne Enterprises shirt on and a pair of old sneakers and socks. His hair sticks up, still damp. Clark swallows. Bruce pads silently past him, and Clark follows, rehashing what he’s going to say over and over again silently until it all runs together like a mantra.

Surprisingly, Bruce leads them to what’s unofficially become the league’s table. It’s just one of Batman’s old lab tables, kept clear of Batequipment, and stocked with several chairs. Bruce settles down in one with a soft sigh and Clark sits across from him. Bruce runs a hand through his hair, and fixes Clark with an intense look. “So, what is it you wanted to talk about?”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce takes as long a time as is justifiable getting out of the suit, showering, and dressing. He considers trying to look presentable, but decides it’s not worth it. Clark’s seen him in worse and Bruce is too tired to give a fuck. Besides, a large part of him firmly believes that this conversation, whatever it’s going to be, will end with Clark making a hasty exit from the cave and Bruce retreating to his bed, battling insomnia once again. “So, what is it you wanted to talk about?” he asks, as they settle down in the corner of the cave that’s been usurped by the Justice League.

Clark looks nervous, and Bruce, unconsciously, tenses. He hears his pulse in his ears for a moment before he reins it in. Clark sighs, and lays a hand on the table. “You don’t have to be nervous— it’s not bad,” he says. Bruce considers rebuking him, denying, ‘No, I’m _not_ nervous,’ but decides it’s not worth it. He’d rather have this **done** with. He arches an eyebrow: continue. Clark sucks in a breath, and says, “I’m in love with you.”

Bruce sits stone-still for a moment, and then his pulse thunders in his ears, and he lurches to his feet. “No,” he says quietly. _There’s no way—_ Clark is not cruel. He wouldn’t say something like that to prank Bruce. _He actually, genuinely, **believes** it_. “I won’t allow it.” _You deserve better_.

Clark, who stands when Bruce does, raises one eyebrow. “Bruce,” he says slowly, placatingly. Bruce stills. Clark’s around the table before Bruce can do anything, and he stumbles a step back. Clark stops where he is and holds up his hands in a supposed-to-be-soothing manner. “Don’t you think _I_ get a say in that too?”

After a few moments of silence, Bruce looks at Clark, who’s still standing, patiently, there. He’s trying not to spook Bruce. This small fact sends a pang of affection through him, which is terrifying and unwanted— _he’s trying to **save** Superman from this_. Now’s not the time for his heart to be selfish. _But Clark loves him too_. “This is a bad idea,” he says stiffly. Clark blinks. Despite Bruce’s harsh words, he smiles. “Stop that!” Bruce snaps.

But Clark doesn’t. Instead, he laughs. Bruce’s clenched fists tremble, and he grits his teeth, feeling an odd mix of furious and… and something else. Something entirely too soft. “You didn’t deny it. You didn’t say you _don’t_ love me,” Clark explains, after a moment. Bruce opens his mouth, but nothing comes out because Clark is right. _You didn’t deny it_ , he sneers at himself, _you **didn’t deny it**_. Bruce’s face must be doing interesting things, because now Clark _does_ step forward, and cups Bruce’s chin in his hand. “Bruce,” he says, “c’mon. Talk to me.”

“This is a bad idea,” he repeats. _A bad idea, a bad idea, a bad idea_. But he doesn’t remove Clark’s hand from his face, doesn’t protest as Clark steps forward so there’s only a few inches of space between them. Doesn’t protest at Clark’s soft huff of a laugh. Then Clark sighs.

“Right. Well, it’s a good thing that I’m an adult, and I’m responsible for both my ‘bad ideas’ and my own decisions.” Bruce frowns. He opens his mouth, and closes it— _what’s he going to do, argue against Superman’s autonomy, his ability to handle himself? They **both** know where that leads_. And if he tries to say, ‘But I hurt you before— I could do it again. This will only end in disaster,’ Clark will laugh at him, or refute his reasoning. Because if there’s anyone who’s as stubborn as the Batman, it’s _Superman_.

Clark shifts forward again, so there’s only a hair’s-width of space between them. Once again, Bruce tenses but doesn’t change his position. Superman goes quiet for a long moment, as if giving Bruce the time to acclimate to their closeness. Bruce grits his teeth, but he can’t, just can’t, force himself to push Clark away. _You’re a weak bastard, Bruce Wayne_ , he tells himself sourly. But his thoughts are yet again interrupted by Clark.

“Bruce, you only have to consider one thing: do you want me too?” Superman says. And isn’t _that_ the question. Does Bruce want him— _all_ of him: Kal El, Superman, and Clark Kent— too? He already knows the answer. Even if he might wish otherwise, Bruce cannot deny that the answer to that question is _yes_.

Yes, he wants Clark too.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

At this point, he’s stepped well within Bruce’s personal space. _But Bruce hasn’t pushed him away_. Bruce hasn’t rejected him _at all_ tonight, hasn’t even offered a good argument as to why he and Clark can’t have this. And now, he’s silent. As if he _knows_ the answer to Clark’s question and just doesn’t want to admit it. Which means that the answer can only be yes. And, moments later, Bruce confirms it. “Fine. Fucking _fine_. Yes, I want you too,” he growls.

Clark takes a moment to press their bodies flush against each other, and Bruce lets out a little breathy gasp. Then he can’t quite keep his hands from wandering south, and soon he finds his left hand cupping the bulge in Bruce’s sweats. Bruce groans, and then he grabs one of Clark’s sinful, wandering hands. Clark’s heart drops, and his stomach feels hollow.

But Bruce merely rubs one calloused thumb over Clark’s captured hand, pulls it up, and kisses it. Then he starts kissing Clark fiercely, all over, and Clark groans. “B-Bruce, I— do you want to—” he’s interrupted by Bruce pressing their lips together in a firm kiss. _So, that’s also a yes_. Then, surprising him, Bruce relinquishes Clark’s mouth. He makes an embarrassing sound of protest, and Bruce gives him a familiar, devilish, self-pleased smirk. Then he sinks down onto the ground. _Oh._

“You don’t have to,” Clark protests.

“But I _want_ to,” Bruce purrs. _Okay, so he was definitely wrong about this— Bruce is **not** too proud to go to his knees_. Things suddenly become even more tight and uncomfortable. And then Clark remembers he’s dressed as _Superman_ right now. “How do I get this off?” Bruce asks with a growl.

“H-here, let me,” Clark replies. Bruce leans back, and squeezes Superman’s ass as his fingers fumble with the Kryptonian fabric. Once the suit’s been removed— at least enough for- for _this_ , Bruce grabs Clark’s hands and places them in his soft, slightly-damp hair. Then Clark’s boxers are given a rough tug, and he’s free.

After that, Clark doesn’t do a lot of thinking.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Despite his tiredness, despite the coldness of the cave, and how his knees protest, Bruce _refuses_ to even consider the idea of not sucking Clark off, right here, right now. _He never thought he’d get to do this. He’d never even considered_ — Clark’s still in the suit, which makes it even **better**. So while Bruce’s knees may protest, the rest of him is very on board with what’s going down. And Clark— Clark’s definitely enjoying himself too.

When it’s over, Clark helps him up, and politely ignores the sound of joints popping. Bruce takes a moment to breathe, and wipes his mouth. Clark’s still panting a little and his pupils are definitely blown. Behind his hand, Bruce’s mouth twitches in a proud smirk. Clark, the bastard, notices. He kisses Bruce’s cheek and says, “You’re _proud_ of yourself, aren’t you?” Bruce merely hums in response to that; _Clark doesn’t need to know everything, yet_.

“Come upstairs?”

Clark chuckles. “Oh, I was already planning on it.” He sweeps Bruce up into his arms and probably sets off dozens of the cave’s silent alarms at his use of super speed. Bruce couldn’t give a damn.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

Bruce is tired, and his invitation to bed had probably been just that: an invitation to _bed_. To literally sleeping with him. But Clark likes to think of himself as both a gentleman and hero. That means no civilian, hero, villain, or… _erection_ , is left behind. Meaning, unless Bruce tells him no, Clark’s planning on returning the favor and getting him off, because all of his senses are telling him that Bruce is still _unsatisfied_ , even if he may be too polite to point it out to Clark himself.

He sets Bruce down on his bed as comfortably as possible and then sort of hovers until he’s in a good position over him. When Clark’s hands hit Bruce’s waistband, he stops. “Are you okay with me trying to get you off?”

“Yes,” Bruce says.

Clark is very happy about that.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

When Clark sets him down on his bed, Bruce is momentarily surprised by what follows. Then he thinks, _Of course. Because Clark is such a **gentleman** like that_. But he doesn’t protest, both because he wants this and because Clark seems so intent on the idea of it too. And Bruce is all about making Clark happy. So if Clark’s idea of happiness is jerking him off— well, Bruce certainly isn’t going to complain.

If he were less tired, if he were younger, if it hadn’t taken such a goddamned _long_ time getting here, Bruce would be embarrassed by how quickly it’s over. But he’s none of those things, so instead he flops against the pillows and focuses on his breathing. This takes longer than it usually does. He would also be embarrassed by this, but it’s _Clark_ who’s with him, so Bruce doesn’t mind.

As Bruce tries to regain his wits from the tides of hormonal bliss, Clark lounges next to him, and makes no move to hide how _pleased_ he is with himself. “Quit smirking,” Bruce grunts. But he’s sure that Clark knows he doesn’t mean it.

After he can _move_ again, Bruce cleans himself up and finishes getting ready for bed.

When he stumbles back to bed, Clark’s already under the covers. “I borrowed some clothes,” he says, planting a kiss in Bruce’s hair. Bruce grunts, at this point fully and completely _exhausted_. Clark chuckles, and flicks the lamp off, plunging them into darkness. “Goodnight, Bruce.”

“G’night, Clark.”

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

In the morning, Clark holds his breath and waits for Bruce to wake up. But he’s not immediately dismissed, nor given the cold shoulder, or any other subtle— or _not so_ — hints that he’s being kicked out, that he should leave, that what they did last night was a _one-time thing only, Clark_. So he breathes, and smiles at Bruce. And Bruce smiles back.

“Want some breakfast?” he asks.

▪︎ ■ ▪︎

One year after Clark’s return, Bruce gives him the lead Supersuit. He admires the way Clark’s eyes widen as he runs an appreciative, curious hand over the perfectly stitched material, and the neatly designed Superman crest. He looks back at Bruce with the kind of smile that gives Bruce’s heart a reason to keep beating. “ _That_ should keep the kryptonite out,” Bruce says smugly.

‘I’m glad you’re _alive_. I’m glad that you’re **_mine_** ,’ he means.

‘I love you,’ Clark hears.

**Author's Note:**

> Clark’s lead Supersuit is real! It’s from the animated series originally (I believe). You can find more information on it [here](https://dcau.fandom.com/wiki/Anti-Kryptonite_suit). 
> 
> I drew what I imagined Clark’s cells to look like; see the art [here](https://www.deviantart.com/maskoftheray/art/LAYOUT-OF-A-KRYPTONIAN-CELL-804183956). 
> 
> I AM NOT a scientist. I did my best to be realistic, but a lot of the science is heavily-bullshitted. Also, canon is wishy-washy in this, and I made up a lot of stuff about the Fortress of Solitide (and Jor El too). 
> 
> Thank you again for your patience, A03reader. I really did have fun writing this. It’s been a while since I wrote a longfic.


End file.
